Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 84930 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84930 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“I thought we were only going to do one!” Penelope groans.
“We’re outnumbered.”
“But there’s only one of her and two of us.”
“She’s the one with the puppy dog eyes.”
Penelope pouts, jutting out her bottom lip. “Does this count?”
I laugh. “Not even a little, sorry.”
The pumpkins cost an arm and a leg, not that I’m complaining, but holy shit. Who can afford this?
I mean—I can, but still.
We’re able to easily get everything back to Penelope’s car, each of us carrying the pumpkins Skipper chose for us, placing them in the back cargo space before we’re on our way.
We don’t bother with showers once we arrive back at her place, but we do change out of the clothes we wore to the carnival and in to more comfortable attire; leggings and sweatshirts for the girls, and mesh track pants and a hoodie for me.
While I order delivery to feed us, Penelope roots through the kitchen cabinets for cookie sheets, then through the drawers for spatulas, knives for carving, and spoons for digging out the seeds and the guts of the pumpkins, while I spread newspaper on the kitchen table.
“Am I missing anything?” She taps her chin. “Oh! Paint!”
She finds markers, glitter, glue, and rhinestones in Skipper’s craft cabinet so we can bling out rather than carve the pumpkins—which seems way easier in my opinion. But Skipper wants a Rainbow Pony pumpkin and has an idea.
“What if we use the pieces you carve and make a mane for the pony?” She’s running a hand down the back of her head to demonstrate. “Like this. Down its back like a real horse.”
It’s brilliant but probably going to be a painstaking pain in the ass, considering how small her pumpkin is. The pony design would work better on the large pumpkin, but she has declared the big one is mine and would most likely take all night.
I use the smallest knife, my daughter breathing next to me, giving me instruction, oohing and aahing at my skill.
It’s a real ego boost having this little kid tell me how amazing it looks.
I feel like a goddamn master at this, and it’s really truly the only pumpkin I’ve ever carved in my entire life. I don’t remember my parents being all that interested in holidays except for Christmas. Both of them worked too hard and were busy, and often forgot about more commercialized holidays like Halloween and Valentine’s Day.
They’d be so proud to see me now, carving with my cute family and doing cool dad shit.
I brush the thoughts of my parents aside; now isn’t the time to get emotional—not when I have a pony to perfect. One wrong move, one slice too thin, could ruin the entire aesthetic and put me in hot water with a certain seven-year-old.
While I’m chiseling away at Skipper’s pumpkin, Penelope is painting hers with a bright floral pattern, a large letter P in the center surrounded by bold colors. Her concentration game is so strong that the tip of her tongue is sticking out of her mouth.
The hours tick away, Skipper hovering nearby but eventually abandons us for the living room and one of her pony shows.
It takes me forever to get this project done; so much time that I have none left over for my big, orange beast, and we collectively decide to put it out on the porch intact, as is—without carving it tonight—arranging the trio where passersby can see.
I put my arm around Penelope’s waist as we stand on the sidewalk admiring our work, Skipper running up to fiddle with the candle stuck inside her pumpkin, the pony eyes and mane an impressive display of skill on my part.
“Is there anything I can’t do?” I sigh in the most unhumble way.
Penelope laughs. “One thing you can’t do is…beat me inside the house.”
She makes a run for it, racing to the porch as fast as she can—but I’m quicker. Quicker and stronger, scooping her up as Skipper giggles hysterically, swooping us all inside to begin cleaning up and getting the bedtime routine going.
Get us to bed.
“I think we should tell her in the morning.”
“Tell who?”
I’m running my fingers through her hair as she lays facing me, naked as the day she was born, bedhead from thrashing it against the pillowcase while I thrust into her.
The more time I spend with Penelope, the deeper and deeper I fall. Our connection grows stronger by the day. I guess that’s to be expected, considering how in love we were back in college, how abruptly it ended, and how we’re going to be in each other’s lives forever now that we have Skipper.
“Tell who what?” I repeat obtusely.
When she trails a finger down my sternum, I shiver. “Harper. I think we should tell her you’re her dad.”
I swear my heart stops beating with those words.
You’re her dad.